He was too weak, I imagine, to sit upright without assistance, and his dark eyes glittered at me through half-opened lids. He wore breeches of a colour indeterminate in the dark, and a white linen shirt oddly at variance with the soiled garb of the men about him; his fine hands rested lighdy on his knees. It was the hands that drew my attention, after those first words of English; they had certainly never hauled a line, nor pulled this man upwards into the shrouds. He had recentfy shaved. His features were fine. There was a quirk of humour about the full lips, and strength in the cut of his chin. I must be staring at a French officer—inexplicably left to sicken and die among the ranks of his own men. But where was his uniform, or the marks of authority?
“You speak English,” I managed.
He bowed his head—a gesture of courtesy, the habit of a gentleman. “I might translate for your pen. There are niceties, there are forms, to a life at sea with which a lady like yourself could not be expected to be familiar….”
Niceties. Forms. How often had I heard those words? He might be my very brother Frank; he had been cut from the same mould. “Certainly you may assist me. I should be glad of the help. Are these your shipmates?”
“What few remain. Most of the Monoris crew are held at the large naval prison in Portsmouth—you know it?”
I nodded assent It was a fortification that dated from the Norman era; twenty generations of British prisoners might have rotted there.
“But your navy has had too much luck, and that prison is full of the French; and so we are sent here, along with others of different vessels, to await the exchange.”
“You are not a common seaman,” I said awkwardly, “and yet I do not observe the uniform of an officer.”
“We are all equal in defeat, modame,” he retorted gently. “But perhaps that is a French belief—the equal right of men to suffer arid die. When something more of value is at stake, however, we prove as selfish as the rest of the world!”
He smiled—a flash of white in that dim and awful room—and I felt a wave of giddiness rise from my feet to my cheeks. I could not help smiling back.
“You were writing to the sister of Jean-Philippe, I believe,” he resumed. “Something about the Stella luffing, and the wind being three points off the bow, and the Manon incapable of carrying royals.”
“Yes,” I stammered. “Luffing. Is that what vient au lof meant?”
His eyelids drifted lower, as though he would fade with weariness. “I would write to all of them myself,” he murmured, “but I can barely hold up my head. C ‘est une fièvre de cheval…”
I rose and went to him in some anxiety. His forehead was clammy, his limbs trembling with the effort he had brought to bear on conversation. “You should lie down,” I said sternly. “You require rest.”
“A little water, if you please.”
I hesitated—Mr. Hill did not like cold water on a fevered stomach, believing it to cause retching; I fetched the man some lukewarm tea instead. He drank it without complaint, sighed, and closed his eyes again.
“Madame,” cried Jean-Philippe, the young seaman who had wished to write of luffing. “Madame, s4l vous plait—”
“Un moment.”
The Frenchman’s eyes flicked open. “You are very good, with your paper and your broth. May I ask what is your name?”
“I am Miss Austen.”
“And I am Etienne LaForge,” he murmured. “You may call me ship’s surgeon. It is as good a name as any for me. Has M’sieur Hill determined the nature of this illness?”
“Gaol fever.”
“Ah. It is as I suspected. Pray continue with your letters, mademoiselle, and I shall supply whatever words you deem necessary—”
I recommenced writing; and in a very little while, possessed a greater understanding of the Manon’s last moments than the Naval Chronicle should be likely to procure.3
It would appear that Captain Seagrave had learned his tactics at Nelson’s foot, for like that great departed naval hero, he was a proponent of gunnery and of crossing an enemy’s bows with complete disregard for peril. Seagrave laid the Stella yardarm to yardarm with the French frigate, and brought his full broadside to bear at point-blank range—only four hundred yards of heaving water lay between. The destruction rained upon the Manon’s hull was dreadful, for the British crews displayed greater accuracy than the French in training their guns. Where the Stella received a quantity of grape in the rigging, to the detriment of her masts and canvas, the Manon took several balls below the waterline, and was shipping water faster than the pumps could work. A mere forty minutes into the action, three of the French guns had been dismounted, and were rolling about the deck with every pitch of the waves, at immense hazard to the men; two unfortunate sailors found their feet crushed beneath the weight
Seagrave seized his moment. He brought the Stella across the Manon’s bows; his boarding party, with their pikes and axes, fell upon the French crew; and within
moments, the poop, quarterdeck, waist of the ship—all were overrun—and the colours struck.
“You will not find great willingness to fight among the French sailors at present,” LaForge observed, when Jean-Philippe had fallen silent “We preserve too well the tragedy of Trafalgar. It is accepted truth that British guns will always prevail. We prefer to run rather than engage; then we might save our ships as well as our lives.”
“But the Manon did not run. And how many men were lost?” I enquired, my eyes trained upon the foolscap.
Jean-Philippe did not reply. I glanced over at the French surgeon.
“Thirty-four were killed outright Eighty-seven were wounded,” LaForge said.
“Seamen? Or officers?”
“We lost only one officer—It capitaine, Porthiault. The rest—our lieutenants and midshipmen—are housed in Portsmouth and Southampton, if they have not already been exchanged.”
“Your captain! That must have been a great loss.”
LaForge’s head moved restlessly against the stone wall. “I tended his body myself.”
“He was killed in batde?”
“But of course.” He turned to stare at me. “You thought it possible he died of fright at the sight of the Royal Navy? It is hardly singular for a captain to be killed, when he is exposed to the enemy guns. Officers maintain a position on the quarterdeck, you understand, in the path of every well-aimed ball.”
“If you tended his body, Monsieur LaForge—you must have seen the nature of Porthiault’s wound?”
“I begin to suspect that you have a taste for the macabre, Miss Austen.” The dark eyes—so deep a brown that in the flickering candlelight, they appeared almost the colour of claret—-held my own. “You spend your liberty in the stench and squalor of Wool House, ministering to the sick; and you are morbidly concerned with the history of a man’s last agony. You interest me very much. What can have excited your curiosity?”
I had no desire to inform the Manon’s crew that a British captain was charged with the murder of their captain. If they were at all akin to British seamen, I might very well have a riot on my hands.
“It is only that my brother is a post captain, I said lamely, “and I suffer considerable anxiety on his behalf.”
“He is presently at sea?”
“No—but he is likely soon to be.”
LaForge stared at me quizzically, unconvinced.
“And… and we possess a considerable acquaintance among the officers of the Stella Maris. The action has been of no little significance in Portsmouth.”
“I see. You wish to carry all the smallest details of the noble Porthiault’s end to your next card party. I am afraid that I cannot increase your delight, Miss Austen. I was below decks, throughout the action.”
“You saw nothing?” I murmured in disappointment.
“The surgeon’s place in battle is always the cockpit deck,” LaForge said by way of reply. “I was entirely taken up with amputation, you understand—two men had suffered crushed feet, from the dismounti
ng of the guns, and there were arms and legs torn away. I did not emerge on deck until I had dressed the last wound.”.
How unfortunate, that the most articulate and sound observer of the naval battle should be below decks throughout the action! I stared at Etienne LaForge with consternation; and at that moment a timid hand brushed my elbow. Jean-Philippe.
“Ma lettrvfhe enquired. “C’estfinie?”
“Mais out, “I replied, and folded it swiftly. “Did any of the Manon’s crew observe how your captain died, Monsieur LaForge?”
“You are very interested in a fellow who was no better than a fool, and who is now feeding sharks off Corunna, Miss Austen.”
His voice—formerly so weak and gentle in its expression—fell like a lash upon my ears. I looked up, and dripped hot tallow across my fingertips.
“I listen to the talk of the Marines outside, from time to time,” he said slowly, his half-lidded eyes never leaving my face. “They say that the captain of the Stella Marts has been charged with murder. I thought I imagined their words—in the rages of fever, you understand, much may be distorted—but now I am no longer certain. Is that man accused of the death of Porthiault?”
I nodded. “Captain Seagrave is charged with having killed Captain Porthiault after the Manon struck. He is to go before a court-martial on Thursday. The outcome is … uncertain.”
LaForge pursed his lips. “A pity. Seagrave is a gallant fellow—a Heart of Oak, as you English say. Clever in his tactics and fearless in their execution—he fought like a tiger, as though all the hounds of hell were at his back. Are you in love with him?”
I gasped incredulously. “You mistake me, sir! Captain Seagrave has long been a married man!”
LaForge lifted his shoulders dismissively. “There must be some reason you concern yourself.”
“The Captain is my brother’s fellow officer. I am acquainted with his wife.”
“Ah.” The surgeon’s voice was now faintly mocking. “The bosom friend of the wife. I understand. But you do not believe this Seagrave killed le capitaine. And neither do I, Miss Austen.”
I studied the amusement at his mouth, the strong chin, and knew that the man was sporting with me. He was, after all, the French ship’s surgeon; if any had examined Porthiault’s body before it was sent over the side, it should be LaForge.
“How do they say that Porthiault died?” he asked.
“That is a point under dispute. Captain Seagrave would have it the man was already dead when the colours were struck. Others insist that Porthiault died by Seagrave’s hand, after the Marion’s surrender. Seagrave’s dirk was buried in Porthiault’s heart, but Seagrave will have it that he never touched the man! It is a difficult tale to credit—”
With effort, LaForge leaned towards me. He spoke very low. “Porthiault did not die from the knife to his heart. He died from the wound to his head.”
“His head?” I repeated. “But the dirk—”
“A small hole at the base of the skull,” the surgeon continued, “oozing blood as the chest wound could not The chest wound was given after death. I tell you, I examined the body before it was delivered into the sea.”
“A musket shot, then? Fired during the batde?”
There was a glint of something in LaForge’s narrowed gaze. Then his shoulders lifted again in that most Gallic of gestures. “There is nothing very wonderful in this. Your own Nelson—the Hero of Trafalgar-died in much the same way.”
It was true. A French marksman had aimed for the jewelled star pinned at the Admiral’s breast, and wounded him mortally.
“Seagrave said the Frenchman lay as though dead when discovered on the quarterdeck. He thought the man had been stunned by a falling spar. Why, then, thrust a dirk into his heart?” I mused.
“For vengeance? Or … the desire to make it appear as such? This Seagrave was not alone, ????”
“He was not. His first lieutenant stood with him.”
The man held my gaze. Despite the fever, despite his weakness and the lazy arrangement of his limbs, Etienne LaForge was taut as a bowstring. He knew the end to which I must be brought; but he preferred that I reach it under my own power.
“You saw him!” I declared. “You saw Eustace Chessyre near Seagrave on the quarterdeck. You were not below throughout the battle, as you claim.”
“I do not know the man’s name.” He glanced over my shoulder warily and lowered his voice to the faintest of murmurs. “There was a great deal of sea in the cockpit deck, you understand. The pumps could not keep up with it. Those British guns—how they love to kiss the waterline! I was forced to pile my patients at the foot of the gangway, and to plead for help in shifting them; otherwise, I feared they should drown. And I am not in the habit of saving a life, to lose it to the sea.”
“You went up the gangway to beg assistance.”
“The waist of the ship was a chaos of men,” LaForge said faintly. “I turned and glanced up at the quarterdeck, where the Captain already lay dead. It was then that I saw him.”
“Seagrave?” I whispered.
“The British captain was being set upon, by our second lieutenant, Favrol; the two were fighting du corps a corps”
“So the ship had not yet struck.”
The surgeon shook his head.
“Seagrave was alone?”
“For all the good his support did him—he ought to have been. But no, mademoiselle, the Captain had an officer at his back. I did not, at the time, observe the rank—but I recognised him later. He was master of the ship that carried me prisoner into this British port.”
“Lieutenant Chessyre,” I breathed.
“Very well. I observed him, bent over le capitalize Porthiault, while Seagrave and Favrol were at each other’s throat; he knelt there a moment—his arm rose—and when he stood, Porthiault’s sword was in his hand.”
“What of the colours?”
LaForge shook his head. “At such a time—who can say when the Manon struck? All was confusion. But know this, mademoiselle”—his voice became almost indistinct—“when the officer rose from Porthiault’s side, the dirk was in my captain’s breast. I would swear on my mother’s grave that it was not there before.”
My breath came in with a hiss. LaForge’s eyes widened in alarm; he raised a feverish hand to his lips.
“Mademoiselle—do not betray us both. More than one man’s life may hang upon your discretion.”
His fingers dropped heavily to his side.
“But why thrust a blade into the breast of a dead man?” I murmured, with a swift glance around the shadowy chamber.
“Must I always translate for you, mademoiselle} The word is not why, but who. Who among all the men of the British Navy would wish your Seagrave to hang? For that was certainly Chessyre’s object. He did not strike for vengeance against the French, but from motives none may penetrate. This was no act of war, Miss Austen. Your Seagrave was betrayed from within.”
1Gaol-fever and ship fever were the common names for typhus— an acute infectious disease caused by a rickettsia transmitted to man by the bite of fleas or lice. Typhus is not to be confused, however, with typhoid fever—a malady caused by a bacillus found in unpasteurized milk.—Editor’s note.
2An Ordinary seaman was a man with little experience of the navy or of ships. He was paid less than a sailor rated Able, a designation accorded men who had mastered the skills required for the working of ships. The French navy probably employed different terms and standards from the Royal Navy in this regard; but Austen would have used the designations familiar to her.—Editor’s note.
3The Naval Chronicle was a journal published twice annually from 1799 to 1818. It detailed Royal Navy actions as well as other topics of interest relating to the sea, with maps and illustrations.—Editor’s note.
Chapter 7
Messenger to Portsmouth
24 February 1807,
cont.
~
I RACED HOME THROUGH THE DARKENING STREETS, intent upon f
inding Frank and relating all that LaForge had told me. I must have looked a trifle mad among the sedate ladies and aging sailors that made their careful way along the High; in the darkness and stench of Wool House I had become like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s desperate heroines, with Etienne LaForge my cryptic prisoner of the keep. I do not think that I would have accorded the Frenchman’s words the same horrific weight, had he not presented a failing aspect. There is something chilling about the word betrayal when uttered by a sinking man, particularly against the backdrop of ancient stone walls. LaForge had chosen his moment—and his auditor—well.
My brother was established with Mary before the fire in Mrs. Davies’s sitting-room; at the sight of my flushed face and heaving breast, he rose at once in alarm.
“Jane! You are unwell!”
“Nothing I regard. A trifle fagged from haste.”
“But where have you been, my dear?” Mary enquired.
“At Wool House. Tending the French prisoners laid low with gaol fever.”
“Gaol fever!” Frank’s countenance darkened. “Have you lost your reason, Jane? To expose yourself to such a scourge, when Mary’s health—and the health of our child—is certainly at stake? I forbid you to go so close to my wife as twenty yards, madam, until we may be certain that you have not contracted the disease! No, nor so close as fifty yards to our mother, given her delicate state of health! I am in half a mind to procure you a room at the Dolphin until we may be sure that you are clear!”
“Banish her to London; Fly, and permit me to serve as chaperone,” said my dear friend Martha Lloyd as she sailed into the room. “I might recommend any number of places in Town, and Jane and I could enjoy the Season at a safe distance from little Mary—provided, of course, that gaol fever does not carry Jane off. But I confess to a sanguine temper on that head. I have little fear of seeing any of us come out in spots. It has always been a man’s complaint.”
I embraced Martha with joy, and enquired as to the safety and comfort of her descent upon the south; declared her in excellent looks after her visit to her sister— a compliment she turned aside with asperity—and took her bonnet into my own hands for safekeeping.
Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House Page 8